


A Near Miss

by SweetSinger2010



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 22:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14799090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSinger2010/pseuds/SweetSinger2010
Summary: Hera's been presumed dead after a failed mission and three-year-old Jacen doesn't know. Now he's asking for his mama and Sabine has an impossible choice to make: lie to him or crush him.





	A Near Miss

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got my first Jacen and Sabine fic done! I imagine that those two had a few good times when Hera had to be away at war, don't you? Well...this one isn't exactly fluffy, but it ends happily enough. More notes at the end.

A Near Miss

Sabine was—she was—

Terrified wasn’t the right word. It couldn’t come close to scratching the surface of this fear so deep, so visceral, so consuming she couldn’t even give it a name.

Hera was missing.

No—not missing

_Missing_ was the word Sabine mouthed to herself over and over; the kinder, softer word she substituted for the thing Zeb had told her.

Presumed dead.

Hera went out on a recon flight with half a squadron of X-Wings and communications were lost when the group was ambushed by an outlying Imperial force. No one returned; all were presumed dead.

Hera was presumed dead.

Jacen didn’t know. And why should he? His little world was happy and perfect; he loved Lothal and he loved Sabine and by now, the routine of spending time with her when Hera’s duties were too dangerous for him was a familiar one. Sabine stood in the doorway of the tower’s spare room, watching him sleep. She looked at him, at his crop of dark green hair, at the nose that was Hera’s and the brows that were Kanan’s and she thought, _You’re an orphan. Sweet, sweet boy. You’re an orphan._

And then for a wild second, she thought, _Maybe I won’t have to tell him._

He was so little—barely three. If he asked about when he would get to see his mother again, she could just answer with the standard _Soon, Jace_ and that would tide him over for a while. It would be like shampooing after that: wash, rinse, and repeat the process until Jacen stopped asking and his memories of the mother who adored him faded like a fever-dream. Sabine would raise him; it could work.

Except that it couldn’t.

No way she could lie to him like that, dishonor Hera’s memory like that. He’d know, anyway. He was smart and he was tender-hearted. He’d know. She’d have to tell him. But not tonight. Not while she was still trying to cling to hope that Hera was out there somewhere, alive. Maybe she’d tell him next week, when Zeb would inevitably com to tell her that no recovery had been made. Maybe she’d wait until next month, when it would be undeniable that if Hera was going to come back, she would have.

Maybe she’d wait until she felt like wouldn’t choke to death on the words.

She turned away from his room and shut the door. She felt like she was drifting above her own body as she walked to the living area, dropping herself onto the sofa, staring at the easel and canvas she’d set up across the room.

She’d intended to paint a portrait of Kanan for Hera’s birthday.

Well, it was more than an intention; she’d already done all the line-work and sketching. All she had to do now was actually paint, and that was going to take more time and care than usual. She’d opted to use traditional paints and brushes to achieve the soft, sentimental style she wanted. She stared hard at the brushes in their container, at the colors of paint she had mixed and ready to go. It seemed so…pointless now that Hera would never see it. But her feet were moving before her mind caught up with her; Hera might never see the portrait, but Jacen still could.

She stood in front of the canvas, hesitating, hands shaking as she reached for her paint and brushes. The she coated the bristles and made the first stroke and didn’t second-guess. After she was a quarter of the way done, she stopped, rinsed her brushes, covered her paints, put it all--and herself--to bed. She’d need rest for tomorrow, a shred of physical strength, at least, if she was going to look that boy in the face another day and pretend she didn’t know what she knew. She rolled to her side and fell asleep thinking about how Jacen would giggle and grin if they picnicked out on the plains and played with some Loth-cats, or if they stayed up late to look at stars, or if they made a call to Cham, or if she let him finger-paint on one of the…

She woke, sweaty and gasping, hardly aware she’d ever fallen asleep, but _very_ aware of the memory of Hera’s raw scream _(Kanan!)_ still ringing in her ears as the nightmare faded. She wondered: what was Hera thinking about when—?

She shook her head, rubbed her eyes aggressively, tried to dispel those thoughts by brute force. She tapped the chrono on her nightstand. Zero-three-fifteen. She sighed. Her cheeks were tingling and her fingers itching to reach for her blaster even though there was no threat or danger. So she was hyper-awake. Fantastic. She slid out of bed and shuffled toward the living area, thinking of things she could do now that would be eight hundred percent harder later with Jacen underfoot. Laundry, meal prep, dusting.

But Kanan’s portrait caught her eye.

She set to work before she had time to talk herself out of it, picking up her paints and brushes as if she’d never set them down. Three hours later, she stepped back from the finished canvas, Kanan’s patient, half-laughing gaze steady on her. It was surreal, seeing him like that—younger, unburdened—as his child slept in the next room; a child he’d fathered at the end of his life, at the onset of a war. Nothing particularly young and unburdened about that.

Sabine sighed.

With trembling, strained, aching, paint-mottled hands, she made a pot of caf and fixed herself a cup. She felt raw from the inside out. Dealing with the idea that Hera was…and painting Kanan, retracing a thousand memories of him and them…

She didn’t know whether it was more devastating or comforting, whether she was going to cry or throw up.

On quick feet, Sabine stepped over to the door, punching the panel, sighing with relief when a rush of cool morning air fanned her face. Sunlight was just beginning to touch the horizon, a warm ember against yawning blackness. She heard birds chirping nearby—had they built a nest on top of the tower?—and resented their cheer. What gave them the right to sing so happily when everything was so wrong? She had half a mind to climb up there and blast them to oblivion…She shook her head. No. This wasn’t the birds’ fault and anyway, it’d be more fun if she brought the nest down to let Jacen look at. He loved touching and prodding and learning about new things. Although maybe, she mused absently, if there were eggs in the nest, she’d have to be careful about how _much_ she let Jacen touch and prod. We have to be careful, she’d explain, those are the birds’ babies. They could leave the nest on the observation deck, right outside the door, and check on it every day, waiting for the eggs to hatch. He’d see the new baby birds and wonder what they eat. She’d tell him that their mama gets food for them. He’d ask about _his_ mama.

Sabine’s breath caught on an unwelcome sob and she blinked back tears that were threatening to spill. What would she say to him? _Jacen, I know this is hard to understand, but mama’s not coming back. She’s not on a trip—she died. Jacen, you’ll never see your mama again. Jacen, it’s just the two of us now. Jacen—_

“Bean.”

Jacen.

His small, small voice came from behind her and she jumped, having not expected him to be up for another hour at least. Sabine smeared a hand across her face and set her caf on the ground before she turned to him. “What’s the matter, love?”

She called him _love_ a lot, the way his mother did. At first, she’d done it to keep things normal for him, to keep a scrap of consistency whenever getting dropped off on Lothal upset whatever routine he’d adjusted to with Hera. And then over time, the endearment fell off her tongue as naturally as if she’d come up with it herself. Usually he beamed when he heard it, but not today. Today, he looked at her with big, baleful eyes and toddled forward, arms upraised so she could pick him up. “I’m sad,” he said as she settled him on her hip. Then, as he looked in her face, his little eyebrows raised in alarm. “ _Bean’s_ sad.” He patted her tear-streaked cheeks. “Why?”

Sabine bypassed the question. “Did you have a bad dream?”

He shook his head, gnawing his lower lip. “I want my mama.”

Her insides knotted up a thousand times, but she kept her voice calm and soothing. “I know, love. I know. I miss her, too. Do you…” She had to pause a second to keep her words from wobbling. “Do you want to sit with me for a bit?”

His eyes brightened and he put himself cheek-to-cheek with her. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Sliding down against the doorframe, she sat with him still wrapped around her, then he wiggled to her lap. He bent forward and grabbed her mug of caf, handing it to her. He hissed as she took it from him, looking at his reddened palms and muttering, _Hot._ She laughed, kissing the top of his head. “Thank you, baby.”

He scrunched his nose. “I not like mama’s caf,” he said.

“You _don’t_ like it?” She corrected gently. “Why not?”

“Smells bad.”

She laughed. That was certainly true; Hera was notorious for making caf so strong that no one else was willing to touch it. Sabine’s was sweetened with a little cream and sugar, much more palatable than the Twi’lek’s standard brew. “Wanna try mine?” He nodded and she helped him take a tiny, careful sip.

His eyes widened as he held the liquid in his mouth to taste it before he swallowed. _“Mmmm.”_ He nodded enthusiastically. “Tha’s good.”

“I know.”

“Some more?”

Sabine considered. “I don’t see why not. Come on.”

They went to the kitchen and she set him on the countertop while she got another mug and filled it less than a quarter of the way with caf. She added milk until the concoction took on a vaguely tan color rather than caf-brown and cooled down considerably. A little bit of sweetener and— “There,” she said, handing him the scarcely half-full mug. “Be careful.”

Delighted both by the “big boy” cup he’d been given and the opportunity to consume more of this wonderful new beverage, Jacen grinned as he pressed his hands to the mug, lifting it slowly to his mouth. Halfway there, he stopped, looking up at Sabine through his dark lashes. “We can sit down?” He looked over at the couch in the living area, mischief dancing in his eyes. He knew good and well that his food and drink consumption was strictly limited to the kitchen and the dining table.

Knowing that she was going to break his heart very, very soon, Sabine couldn’t deny him a little naughtiness, this rare treat of getting to sit and drink caf with her in forbidden lands. She took his mug and then helped him hop down from the counter, following him with both their mugs in hand.

He chattered excitedly as he walked ahead. “We sit down and we have caf and we cuddle and— _oh!_ ” He stopped cold when he saw the canvas—the portrait of Kanan—on the other side of the room. He spun to face Sabine. “My daddy!”

Sabine’s throat felt tight. She set their mugs down on the side table and picked Jacen up, walking toward the canvas. “Yeah, I painted him. It—was for your mama’s birthday.” He reached for the portrait with his pointer finger and Sabine closed her hand over his, gently holding it against her chest. “The paint is still wet,” she explained. “Can’t touch yet.”

“Oh.” He didn’t fight. His eyes traced every detail, admiring the face of a man he’d never met. “When she comin’?” He asked after a long silence, voice far-away-sounding. She squeezed him tightly, unable to answer. He put a hand to her cheek. “Bean?”

“I heard you,” she whispered. Her pulse was racing fast—too fast. She had a choice to make right now, this instant: lie to him or crush him. “Jacen, you know how mama has to fly the _Ghost_ sometimes, and you stay with me because it’s not safe for you to go?”

He nodded. “Big mission,” he said matter-of-factly. “She said she hadda go do a big mission.”

“That’s right.” She swallowed, trying to keep nausea at bay.

“She’s a good pilot. The _best. ever._ ”

“Yes,” Sabine answered hoarsely. She put a finger under his chin, forcing herself to make eye contact with him. Force, those eyes. Shaped like Hera’s. The same color as Kanan’s. “Baby, sometimes—”

She stopped, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. Concerned, Jacen threw his arms around her neck.

“Bean, don’t cry,” he said, patting her back. “Don’t cry. Is ‘kay. Is ‘kay.”

“Jacen—you’re right.” She nodded, speaking quickly, desperate to get through this. “Your mama _is_ the best pilot ever. But, baby, sometimes—sometimes even the _best_ pilots—”

“The best pilots,” a weary alto voice interrupted, “ _always_ finish their missions and come home.”

_“Mama!”_

Sabine all but dropped Jacen as he wriggled out of her grasp and _ran_ toward his mother. Hera knelt down and gave him a fierce, one-armed hug; the other was in a sling. Jacen pulled back after a long few moments and tenderly touched her bruised cheek and swollen lip.

“Ouch,” he said.

“I’m okay.” Hera glanced at Sabine, giving a small nod. “I’m okay.”

Sabine pressed her lips together as a wave of unknown emotion made her face flush hot and her insides tremble. She concentrated on trying not to cry—not now, not in front of Jacen, not again.

“Hey.” Hera inched closer to Jacen and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Have you two had breakfast yet? Because if you _haven’t_ , there may or may not be some meiloorun fruit on the _Ghost._ ”

Jacen grinned. He loved meiloorun just as much as his mother did. “No _way._ ”

She nodded. “Way. Chop’s waiting for you right outside the door. He’ll help you get them.”

The old astromech appeared in the doorway and Jacen took off, screeching with glee. The pair disappeared, both chattering wildly. Hera stood slowly, turning toward Sabine, and Sabine—

Sabine broke.

Low, guttural sobs tore at her throat and she pressed a hand over her mouth to try and muffle the sound, to stuff it back inside, to make it go away, but her whole body was shaking with it. Hera came close—wonderful, injured, _alive_ Hera—and held her with her good arm. She smoothed her hand over Sabine’s hair, over and over, offering comfort in that soothing, maternal way of hers, taking care of her the way she always had; something Sabine appreciated much more now than she had at sixteen.

“Z-Zeb to-old me you-you-you were de-e-ead.” Sabine cried harder as she spoke.

“The X-Wings didn’t make it,” Hera explained roughly. “It was half a day before I realized my coms weren’t working and another two before I fixed that and got the _Ghost’s_ hyperdrive back online. Zeb was the first person I talked to. He told me—I came straight here.”

Sabine hugged Hera fiercely for one, five, ten seconds, making sure she was really here, really okay. She tried to pull herself together, stepping back from Hera as she wiped her eyes. “It’s a g-good thing you got here when you did because— _kriff,_ Hera.” She laughed shakily. “That would have been something to explain to Jacen; you showing up after I’d told him you were dead.”

Hera laughed and then they laughed together because it _wasn’t_ funny and they were both so glad things hadn’t gone differently. “I was never worried about you and him,” Hera said. “If I—”

“I can’t talk about it,” Sabine interrupted, holding up a hand. “You’re here. That’s it. Don’t scare me like that again.”

They both knew that was a promise Hera couldn’t make, so she said, “I’ll be here for a while thanks to this.” She tapped the sling-bound arm. “If that’s alright.”

Sabine nodded, eyes closing. “No objections here.”

“Sabine.”

She opened her eyes to follow Hera’s gaze. The portrait—Kanan stood watching them, proud and knowing, the beginnings of a smile pulling at his mouth. Hera was transfixed. “This is—just—incredible,” she whispered.

“Oh, good. You like it,” Sabine said, doing her best to sound nonchalant and borderline disinterested. The effort fooled no one. “I—it’s for your birthday.”

“Thank you, Sabine. Thank you.” She squeezed the younger woman’s hand. “And thank you for loving my son.” The words were tight, choked. “That makes it easier for me to—”

“Shut up.” Sabine rolled her eyes, willing them not to fill with tears again. She put on her Mandalorian, no-nonsense facade. “Just shut up, okay? If you don’t, I’m gonna completely lose it again—”

“Lose what?” Jacen came running in, a grin on his face and a meiloorun in each hand.

“Lose a game of rancor, rathtar, sarlaac,” Hera covered quickly. She walked toward him, throwing a wink over her shoulder at Sabine. “She already lost twice.”

He whooped a laugh. “What’s she gotta do?”

“Cook breakfast,” Sabine said. She joined them in the kitchen, getting out the cookware and ingredients they’d need for bacon and waffles. She felt numb in a good way, her cheeks and her fingers and toes tingling as her heart sang, _It’s all okay._ “Alright—two for me and two for Hera. How many for you, Jace?”

“Two, _duh_ ,” he answered disdainfully. He opened the flatware drawer, digging for what they’d need. Three sets of forks and knives this time instead of the usual two.

“ _One_ for Jacen and one for me; I’ll finish his extra,” Hera corrected. She eyed the caf-maker and clamped down on a smile as she reached for a mug. “So who wants to tell me why I saw two cups of caf sitting in there?”

Sabine and Jacen looked at each other, each tapping a finger to their nose. “Nose goes,” they chimed in unison.

Hera either didn’t have the energy to scold or didn’t want to. She glared weakly over the rim of her mug as she drank. “You two are perfect for each other,” she muttered. “I don’t know why I came back.”

Jacen hugged Hera’s legs. “Because you love me.” He tipped his head all the way back so he could look at her.

Her hand ruffled his hair. “Because I love you,” she answered, smiling. Then she locked eyes with Sabine. “Lots.”

Sabine understood, and it put a lump in her throat all over again. She turned her attention to the waffle batter, not thinking about how her heart had almost shattered from the near-loss of another Spectre, letting it go. “You wanna know who was the _worst_ at rancor, rathtar, sarlaac?”

“Who?”

An almost-smile lifted the corner of her mouth. “Ezra. Ezra for sure.”

Hera _hmphed._ “That explains a lot about how chores got divided on the _Ghost._ ”

“And how he took the blame for a scratch on the _Phantom_ that _I_ put there,” Sabine said smugly. She caught Hera’s for-real-this-time glare and quickly amended, “Which was horrible and I should have just told the truth in the first place.”

Jacen’s eyes were star-filled. “Tell the story,” he begged.

“Well, what happened was—”

And Sabine told the story, and not even residual grief over losing Kanan and Ezra was enough to keep her from smiling as she spoke. Not this time. This had been a near miss, one more time they’d evaded disaster and skirted grief. Today, right now, for this perfect, tiny, moment, she knew everyone she loved was alright, and she couldn’t ask for anything more than that.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks go to: GondalsQueen for offering to beta this piece and leaving me with some awesome comments and adjustments to work with; RagnarDanneskjold for always offering comments and advice and especially for always asking "whatcha working on?" to make sure that I am, indeed, working on something; and to WestwardGlance, who came up with "rancor, rathtar, sarlacc" as the SW version of "rock, paper, scissors." Trust me, the alternatives I was coming up with were....not good.
> 
> Sometimes, it takes a village to write a fic.


End file.
